


Nothing More

by Ghost (PoisonedDeath)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Anger, Angst, Gen, M/M, Self-Harm, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-26 05:53:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoisonedDeath/pseuds/Ghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All they've got to do is convince themselves that this doesn't hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rushed Violence

It would end as quickly as it started. Martin's hands on Daniel's chest, lips colliding, tattoos creating a blur of patterns. Daniel taking control, fucking the Slovak hard, roughly, all anger and no love. The screams of pain became moans of pleasure, but neither man was focussed on satisfying the other. This was a selfish act. It was abuse of a friendship, both men using each other for their own need, their own greed.

The sex wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't meant to be. Martin was so full of anger and Daniel had become withdrawn, yet neither man noticed the other's problems. They didn't talk. Talking was never part of the unspoken agreement. Neither were emotions, so both men needed to find other ways of helping themselves, and it was nothing more than a drunken coincidence that they fell into bed the first time, three and a half years ago. At first, it was nothing more than a fuck to help them sleep on away trips. But it had become a secret ritual built up with a lack of feelings; it was just a way of making themselves happy again. It was like this every time, a quick, painful fuck.

 

And then, when they'd spilled their seed, they'd walk away.

They always walked away.


	2. Brutal Hatred

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italics mean a flashback.

Daniel sighed, absentmindedly strolling down his stairs. It was early, and Daniel really didn’t feel like getting up today. His sleeping family were unaware of the fact that Daniel stopped once he reached the bottom and sat on a step, tears burning in his eyes. Just another day, he told himself, the message slightly unclear due to thousands of negative thoughts. Daniel reminded himself of the prize he would get at the end of the day, Martin’s arse, tight and willing. A perfect fit. Daniel bit his lip hard, but not hard enough to draw blood. The sudden pain caused Daniel to exhale sharply, and the defender hoisted himself to his feet using the banisters. As soon as he was standing, his mind screamed insults at him for using pain as a way of forcing himself to do things. Giving the house a once over, Daniel left.

 

Martin rolled clumsily out of bed and onto the floor, pulling the duvet off of his wife as he did so. She sat up, startled, and rolled her eyes as she watched her husband attempt to climb out from several layers of floral printed sheets – her choice, naturally. Once he was free of his fabric prison, Martin stumbled to his closet, pulling out clothes haphazardly. Deciding on blue washed-out jeans and a white t-shirt, he put the clothing items on quickly, thoughts buzzing around his head like loud, irritating bees. Forcing the corners of his mouth to upturn, Martin smiled at his wife and left their bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. He darted down the stairs and grabbed a glass of water, his hands shaking from the tight grip. Placing the clear cup in the dishwasher, Martin exhaled deeply. He clenched his fists, and exhaled deeply once again, but still, he could not rid himself of his thoughts. He wasn’t a violent person – he wasn’t a naturally violent person. He was just angry. Just angry, that was all. That was why his thoughts were so viscous and cruel. He told himself that over and over, as he sauntered out of the front door, forcefully closing it.

 

Daniel didn’t trust Martin. But then again, Daniel didn’t trust many people anymore. He’d try, but it just wasn’t enough. His life had a perfect shell: a wife, two kids, great house, amazing job. But that shell was empty. On the inside, Daniel Munthe Agger was still as broken as he was fifteen years ago.

 

_“Midget!”_

_“Shorty!”_

_“Freak!”_

_“Loser!”_

_“Freckles!”_

_“Why don’t you sit this one out, Daniel? You must be tired,” his coach said. Daniel nodded dumbly, despite knowing that he didn’t have really a choice. He turned away, dragging his feet, as he made his way to the changing room. A fragile whisper of “don’t cry,” was swallowed up by the surrounding walls as Daniel slumped down on one of the benches. Glancing up, his eyes fell upon one single mirror that hung from the wall opposite. Slowly, he rose from the seated position and walked with purpose in each stride, heading towards the shining mirror. He glared at his reflection as he approached it, biting his lip hard enough to draw metallic-tasting blood, his fists clenched. Those other kids were right; he was too short to be a centre back. The hatred and jealousy that had been brewing inside of him erupted, creating a mess of unstructured thoughts and, before he was aware of his own actions, Daniel’s right fist collided with the mirror, sending glass shards flying. His thoughts began to slow as the pain in his hand grew. Blood beaded at the surface of some of the wounds, others just let the flood fall slowly with a mechanical drip, drop, drip to the floor below him. Daniel smiled._

 

Martin traipsed into Melwood, eyes full of rage. The drive had caused his anger to burn even deeper. Fuck thinking; thought should be rationed in his case, or so he believed. He could hardly remember the last time he had been truly able to release this buried frustration. He wanted to pin Daniel against the nearest wall and take him, fuck the Dane into oblivion. He truly hated Daniel and his perfect life and his stupid fucking lip biting. Goddamn, that bloody man was enough to piss anyone off after a while. So loyal, so... so in control. Daniel never let Martin have the control that the Slovak so desperately craved. Martin clenched his fists.

 

Growing aware of his surroundings once again, Daniel shuddered. The bitter memories of the pain he once inflicted upon his own body was too much for the Dane to bear. He could recall the first medical with Liverpool, the club doctor asking him all sorts of questions about the hundreds of neat scars across his thighs, offering him help that he didn’t want. He always fought to hide his scars from the team, just like he’d done at his previous clubs. Let the medical staff know, but don’t tell a fucking soul that you’re a fuck up. No one would expect such self-destruction from someone with such potential to be so successful, which Daniel, admittedly found a little amusing. Because all life was now was only a couple of boxes, labels, stereotypes that he had to live up to. He did well in school, worked hard to be the best footballer he could, but he did that whilst hiding the dark secret of finding solace in a razorblade. So determined, yet so naive. As Daniel had grown older, he had begun to realise the price he’d paid for fame, for money, for success. He’d never learnt how to love himself emotionally. He still hated himself. But, hurting himself wasn’t an option anymore. No, instead, Daniel would hurt Martin.

 

Martin stomped into the dressing room, and scanned his surroundings. It was almost empty, with exception of one man in the corner. Daniel was perched on a bench, staring into the screen of his phone, tapping it, oblivious to Martin's entry, seemingly deep in thought. Martin snarled. Daniel’s head snapped up. The phone hit the floor. Martin strode towards the Dane, who the perfect image of fear. Martin’s left hand forced Daniel against the wall behind him, pinning the Dane up by his neck. The firm grip caused Daniel to choke.  Unaware of his actions, Martin’s right hand collided with Daniel’s face once. Twice. Three times. Overcome with anger, Martin gripped Daniel’s throat tighter, the Dane gasping for breath, his blood dripping down onto the slightly younger man’s hand. Martin grinned savagely as he forced his nails into the other man’s flesh. As Daniel grew limp, Martin began to sober up and released his grip. He stepped away as Daniel fell forward, hitting the floor. Panic-stricken, Martin grabbed his bag and left, leaving Daniel on the cold floor, covered in his own blood.


End file.
